Òyì nke e mepụtara

Varna, Bulgaria — July 2000 The sea didn’t care what she used to be. That was the first thing Bodila Lyudmilova always noticed about it. Not its beauty. Not its rhythm. Its indifference. The Black Sea rolled against the rocks below her apartment in slow, patient cycles, as if it had all the time in the world and no interest in the outcome of anything that happened on shore. Inside, the radiator clanked like it had something personal against the building. It had been doing it all morning.